The Fortree Cafe
by Sylphie3000
Summary: Hoennchampionshipping coffee shop AU. She's a barista, he's the heir to a multi-million-poke international company. You know, classic love story. May or may not be continued in a similar format.
1. The Barista

"Hello, welcome to the Fortree Cafe. We serve the best coffee in Hoenn! What can I get for you today, sir?"

The barista is small, with bark-brown hair that's longer in the front than the back and a high, bright, customer-service voice. Everything about her _screams_ positivity, from her bright red outfit to the smile plastered on her face. She looks at me, expecting either a short, to the point order or a meandering _uhh…I don't know_ …

What she gets, after asking twice more, is a stuttered, "Oh, sorry, um. Excuse- uh…"

I've been to this cafe before. I try to come almost every morning I'm in town, usually on business for my father and Devon Corps. But I've never seen _this_ barista before. I would remember if I had.

Her smile falters the smallest bit, sunlight glinting off her golden nametag that says _May_ in fancy golden script. "Sir?" she asks, and tilts her head at me.

She's all sharp angles, I realize. Her nose is pointy and her eyes are pointy, her cheekbones sharp, shoulders small. If her shirt were any tighter I could probably count her ribs. She's tiny, birdlike, but not any species I've ever seen.

"What I mean," I say, clearing my throat once, then twice before continuing, "is that I would like a...an…"

People behind me are starting to mutter. The barista's getting agitated, I can tell. She heaves a little sigh, blowing a lock of hair out of her face, but ultimately remains cheerful. Or maybe that's just the customer service in her expressing itself, I don't know and I don't care.

I can't take my eyes off of her.

Three minutes later, I've managed to stutter out a response and she's laughing, handing me my coffee-mocha-latte- _thing_ (what did I even order?). The line at the Fortree Cafe starts moving once more. The coffee-wait, tea?

Did I get _tea?_

Amazing. Just great.

I don't even like tea.

* * *

He's cute, she thinks.

Sure, there are a lot of cute guys that stroll in and out of the Cafe, ordering coffee and leaving. Sometimes they stutter and stop, like Steven (he told her the last time he came in), but more often than not they're overconfident and step beyond their bounds.

Sometimes, it's all she can do to still her shaking hands and avoid 'accidentally' spilling hot coffee down the front of some Ace's shirt, but she manages. She _is_ in customer service after all; she must maintain a smile, an unbreakable aura of charm.

But this one.

He's never taken her niceness for flirting, and she's never seen someone get so red so fast over a compliment on a suit. He's funny, too. Shy, but funny.

He comes in every day for her entire work week (six days-Marrissa ditched _again_ ) and gets the same thing every day: a hard caramel latte, three shot, twenty ounce. The tea from when they met, he explains, was a terrible, terrible mistake. He hates tea, but needed to get an answer out before there was a riot in the line behind him.

He learned to come at less busy times.

She learns things about him, too. She learns that he's come on business. Devon Corps, to be exact. Big business might not be her thing, per say, but she'll make an exception this one time. As long as he cuts casual as good as he does a three-thousand-poké suit. She learns that he loves the color purple, and yes, his hair is that white on it's own, and that he has a dry sense of humor. And oh, yes. She almost forgot.

His name is Steven Stone. Son of President Stone, leader of Devon Corps.

He's worth _millions_ , and he's sitting here ordering coffee in a crappy cafe in a crappy town from _her_ , a seventeen-year-old that dropped out of school far too early and doesn't write home anywhere near as much as she should, and he's funny, and smiles when she laughs, and she'll be _damned_ if he doesn't have the kindest lavender-grey eyes she's ever seen.

He is entirely, irrevocably out of her league, a fact that doesn't stop her from putting her number on his cup the day before her day off.

He takes his latte with a smile, a nod, and a "thank you, May," before sitting down to read his ledgers and drink. He doesn't even notice her number until he finishes and stands, giving her a smile before tilting his white paper cup.

"Let's see what my cup says today. You know, I've never been to another cafe with stickers on their cups. And these are cute, too. Make my day."

Her heart is _hammering_ in her chest, beating out a rhythm of _one-two-crap-one-two-fuck-one-two_ and she can't breathe. Time slows to a stop when he sees the black lettering.

She busies herself with cleaning the espresso machine. Anything to not see his face right now.

"May?"

"Yes? Oh-I'm, I'm _so_ sorry, it's okay if you don't-shit, uh," she stutters, re-wiping the machine harder.

"May."

"Steven, I-"

"May," he laughs, and she freezes. "I just wanted to ask if you had a pen. Paper, too, would be nice."

She stares at him for a beat too long, and starts about his request ever so slowly. A pen with a giant plastic flower taped to it, and the back of a receipt are the first things she grabs.

She hands him her washcloth instead.

He looks at the rag in his hand, and the pen in hers, and laughs.

"Please," he says between bouts of laughter, "tell me you're not serious."

 _Arceus help me_ , she thinks, and all but throws the pen and receipt at him. He scrambles to catch them, then walks back to his table, bends down, and scribbles something on the receipt. "Good day, May," he says with a nod and a mischievous smile shot in her direction before leaving, ledgers tucked under one arm, empty coffee cup in the other hand.

He left the receipt on the table.

Fifteen minutes later, when she finally gets the nerve to look at it, creeps over to Steven's writing.

 _Tonight?_ it reads in messy scrawl. Somehow, she thought he'd have nicer handwriting. _7? Call me._

And then his number.

His. Number.

The actual phone number of Steven- _fucking_ -Stone, is sitting on a slightly crumpled receipt in a crappy coffee shop in a nowhere town, given to her, a seventeen year old highschool dropout that _would_ work way past seven tonight at her second job, if she wasn't suddenly planning on calling in _sick_ for once in her life.

Maybe getting this job wasn't such a bad thing after all.


	2. The Date

The first thing he notices, when they meet outside the Red Lounge at seven-thirty that night is her dress: red, skintight, floor-length, exaggerating all her lines and points. They make her legs look like they go on for _miles_.

The second thing he notices-and he's ashamed it wasn't the first thing he noticed-is her face. Just a little makeup, just a dab, enough to make her eyes even bluer, her cheeks a little redder. Dark hair straightened and let fly, and fly it does in the treetop breeze.

She's gorgeous, she really is.

Is this the same barista that gave him her number at just nine this morning? _How?_

She sees him staring from across the room with his mouth open like some backwoods Sinnoh hick, smiles, and waves enthusiastically. She's bouncing with excitement, and while she near skips over to him his eyes follow her.

If he thought he couldn't take his eyes off her before, now there's nothing else worth looking at. She's birdlike, flitting, fleeting.

He closes his mouth.

"Steven?" She asks, voice oozing with excitement. She stops an arm's length away and bounces on the balls of her feet, face alight.

He waits too long to respond and her smile falters. "Shit," she mutters, giving herself a once over. "I wore the wrong thing, didn't I? Was it supposed to be casual? You don't look casual but I think _I_ was supposed to look casual-I'm sorry, my friend lent it to me-" she babbles and attempts to cover her bare arms with her hands, and her low-cut neckline with her arms.

He touches her shoulder and she jumps, even though it was a light touch, like she was made of glass and could break at any moment.

"May," he whispers, voice a little husky, a small smile on his face. He places his hands on her shoulders and looks down at her. "You look incredible."

The change of expression from mild terror to extreme embarrassment is instant. She goes as red as her dress and stutters out a "t-thank you."

He could kiss her, if he wanted to. And he wants to, so very bad. Lips parted, eyelids heavy, she leans in towards him the tiniest bit-an invitation.

He could kiss her.

Instead he forces a smile on his face to break the tension, slings an arm around her shoulders and gestures grandly at the restaurant before them.

"Welcome," he says with a flourish and a glance in her direction (is that disappointment in her eyes?), "to the Red Lounge. Tonight, the menu is anything and everything."

* * *

The food is, for such a high-class restaurant, well-portioned, albeit pricey.

And when I say pricey, I mean that if I were to come and eat here just for fun I would have to sell my soul to Darkrai for a basket of fries.

As it is, I'm here in a borrowed dress that reveals too much skin for a first date with a man that has more money than half the country combined.

The man himself is eloquent and charming, as quick with a smile as ever, and dressed in a suit with a very poofy, very deep purple scarf-type number tucked into it instead of his usual straight, black, business tie. It goes with my dress wonderfully, which doesn't make any sense because I've never liked purple and red together. It's just too...wrong. Too contrasting.

But here, it works.

Know what else works? Being on a date with someone that actually makes me feel like a person instead of just a rival, for once. Unlike-

 _No. Not now. Happy thoughts, May. Happy thoughts,_ I think, and refocus on the conversation at hand.

Steven is sitting across the table, not eating, staring at me with one eyebrow raised. Clearly, he's waiting for an answer to a question I didn't hear.

"May, did you hear me?" he asks, and I feel my face heat up.

I stall, pretend to be thinking about an answer when he interrupts me.

"It's okay if you didn't, May. I understand. All you had to do was ask me to repeat myself."

"Sorry," I manage, feeling my face turn wine-red.

He smiles, takes a sip of his wine, leans in like he's about to tell me a secret-I think he's a little tipsy, to be honest-and whispers, "May."

Just like that, he brings the sinking feeling in my stomach back to nervous butterflies instead of nausea. I lean in, elbows on the table, inches away from his face (I'm trying not to think of the almost-kiss from earlier) and say, "yes, Steven?"

"I was trying to ask if you…"

I was right. He's tipsy, damn him.

"Yes?" I can't help the way my voice hitches. "If I what?"

"If you had any pokemon?"

My mind goes completely blank. Pokemon? And here I thought he was going to ask if I'd ever-

Well. He's drunk. Should've expected that. Pokemon it is, then.

I smile, huff a breathy laugh and lean back in my seat. "One," I say, shaking my head.

He follows suit, a wonderfully confused expression on his face. "Just one?"

"Yeah. A...uh….friend? I guess. A friend of my mother's gave her to me. A Skitty. He was gonna give me a Treecko, but… well. Skitty it turned out to be," I say, and shake my head.

"Oh?"

"He wound up giving _my_ pokemon to another kid, so he gave me a spare out of his pocket. Not what I wanted, per say, but it turned out alright. Moony's cool. A little weird, yeah, but cool," I explain, hoping that my pokemon's ridiculous name would get Steven off this line of questioning.

And, thank Arceus, it works. Steven perks up and laughs aloud in the middle of the crowded restaurant.

"Moony? You named your Skitty...Moony?" he laughs, shaking his head. "I'm sorry that's just...wow. Moony. _Moony_. I can't get over it. I just-" and he breaks off into incoherent laughter.

"Hey!" I say, indignant. "I'd like to see _you_ come up with a name on the fly for a-"

"No, no, _no_ ," he says, waving his hand dismissively,"I'm not being mean. That's a _great_ name for a pokemon."

He doesn't sound too sincere about that, though.

"Oh yeah? Well what'd you name _your_ first pokemon?" _There_ , I think. _That'll show him_.

He stops laughing but keeps grinning ear to ear like a Haunter. "You really wanna know?"

"'Course I do. Wouldn't've asked if I didn't, now would I?"

He looks away, face turning red more from embarrassment rather than drink. "It...was a...this is awful. I can't do it."

"Ste-ven," I sing. "You promised."

"Fine, fine!" he grumbles and hides his face behind a hand. "A Machop. My first pokemon was a Machop named Crush."

As it turns out, in such a high-class restaurant, one is supposed to be _quiet, ma'am, so as not to disturb the other guests_.

And another thing: in such a high-class restaurant, if one _does_ disturb the other guests with one's obnoxious, raucous laughter, one will soon find one's self _outside_ said restaurant and hanging onto a handrail for dear life because of the gale force winds that often happen this high in the trees can and will knock one down if given the chance.

* * *

We're in front of my apartment building when he leans in again, brushes my hair away from my face with his hand-a light touch, to be sure, but thrilling. Just a little.

Okay, a _lot_. My breath hitches and my face heats, all those fun things that _should_ make me all the more unattractive but don't, somehow.

It's wonderful.

"Tonight was…" he whispers, and by Arceus _please_ let him finish with something good. Not even good-let him say _great_ , or _awesome_ or _amazing_ anything at all, just not _good_ because _good_ means you didn't enjoy yourself at all, _good_ means that this amazing thing will Never Happen Again and that would _suck_.

"Great?" I squeak, shy away from him. If he corrects me with something like _decent_ or _okay_ I swear I'm going to faint. Fucking watch me.

"No."

My stomach drops somewhere near my ankles. "Oh."

"May...tonight was _amazing_ ," he says, touching his forehead to mine. I meet his eyes-or try to, anyways, since his are closed. There's a small, lopsided smile on his face. "I haven't laughed like that in a long time."

I'm not going to say that I can't help it. I couldn't even if I _wanted_ to, but I _don't want to help it_. Entei knows he'll never make the first move.

I jerk forwards, much less gracefully than I intended. My nose bumps his, and my mouth hits _next_ to his. A little too far to the left, and I've ruined it. I pull back, horrified, and he pulls back, startled, and my face feels like it's caught on fire-I don't know, maybe it _has_ from sheer embarrassment.

"Shit," I say, too loud. Again. I'm never good with volume under pressure.

I see his grin only for a split second before I feel it. It's warm, soft, brilliant pressure, and after a moment when my mind goes white and I might throw up I'm kissing him back.

I am kissing Steven Stone.

I am kissing Steven Stone.

 _I am. Kissing. Steven. Stone._

I am _so glad_ I got that job.


	3. Goodbye So Soon?

"May."

The voice comes from behind her, excited and insistent, accompanied by a _thud_ on the counter. May turns around, bemused, to face the source. One Steven Stone, grinning ear to ear like a child, bounces on the balls of his feet. He's less well-groomed than usual, hair messy, an over-night shadow on his chin and jaw, but the light in his eyes makes it seem as though he's spent five hours tidying himself up.

"May, guess what." The bouncing continues.

She can't help it-she laughs, a bright, bouncing sound in the metal and wood of the Fortree Cafe. He's just so... _childish_ sometimes, it warms her heart. And her stomach, which makes her neck warm, and her face, and then-

She kisses him, lightly, quickly, a ghost of a thing that leaves him blinking in surprise. She leans on the counter, grinning, looking up at him. "You've...caught a shiny Caterpie?" she guesses.

He laughs, kisses her nose. "No, love," he says, flashing a white grin. "The meetings are finished. I'm done. I'm off. Three more days to make the hotel bill even-Dad hates oddly numbered charges-I mean, who doesn't-and I-" he stops, concern scribbling itself all over his face. "May? What's wrong?"

She doesn't answer right away. She's too busy trying to recover her stomach from somewhere near her feet. Steven's leaving. His work-the reason he was in town to begin with-is _done_.

And for some reason, he's _happy_ about it.

Her mind's racing faster than a Ponyta at a Pokeathlon, her blood's frozen. If she hadn't gotten so good at hiding her feelings with-

 _No. None of that now._ _You don't_ want _to cry, do you?_ she thinks.

Well, it's a good thing she knows how to hide her feelings, or she'd be shaking. Probably crying. Definitely making a fool of herself. But if she doesn't move, doesn't _breathe_ , she'll be fine, fine, where he's not leaving because time's not moving, and if time's not moving _he can't leave_.

" _May_!" The shout, paired with a rough shake of her shoulders, snaps her out of her reverie. She gasps, slumps over, heaving, can't catch her breath, head on his chest- " _May, what's wrong?"_ -why do her lungs feel like they're being torn to shreds?

Her face is hot.

She's probably crying.

Definitely making a fool of herself.

 _Dammit_.

She blinks tears out of her eyes, squeezes them to stop the flow. Her shoulders shudder under his hands. The metal cuffs of his suit dig into her ribs a bit, but she's not going to complain.

To be completely honest, she'd let those stupid, wonderful metal cuffs of his dig into her ribs for the rest of her life if it meant he _stayed_ here.

He doesn't say anything for a minute, just rubs between her shoulders in small circles, plants a calming kiss on the top of her head, but she can feel the tension in his arms. He's worried, she can tell. They stay quiet till she stops shaking and her breaths even, then he pulls back, grabs her shoulders and steps back to arm level.

"May," he says, voice a bit shaky, face dark with concern. "What in Arceus' name is going on?"

She laughs a bit, a wet, humorless thing that tears from her lungs without consent. "Sorry," she whispers. "I just…" She shrugs. "I…" Shrugs again.

The concern on Steven's face changes to questioning seriousness. His hands tense on her shoulders. "What aren't you telling me, May?" he asks, but it's not really a question, more of a command, more of a voice he would use to talk to an insubordinate underling. But gentler, like he's trying _hard_ to not fall into 'commanding boss' mode and remain the caring boyfr-

 _He won't be that very much longer if he's_ leaving _,_ she thinks.

She wipes her nose.

He stares, frown growing the longer the silence stretches.

"Steven, it's fine. It just...caught me a little off guard, that's all. I just-I forgot you were here on business, that's all, and I…"

Her voice sounds false to her own ears, never mind Steven's.

He says nothing, just cocks an eyebrow, stares a little harder.

She cracks.

* * *

It all comes out in a rush, in a harsh, wet voice rough from crying I could barely understand much less take in without a second, slower, telling.

It was a father and she was seven. He left to run a gym and never came home. She used to go and visit, she said, for a while. Then he moved once, twice, stopped calling. He and her mother had a falling out, but when she was twelve he showed up again and here they are, a 'family' of sorts.

It was a boyfriend and she was thirteen. They met when she moved here, the first friend she had in Hoenn. They dated a while, journeyed and played in the oceans and forests of the island. A first kiss, a shared pokemon, four and a half years together.

One day, she woke up, and he wasn't there.

Potions, pokemon, the person she had told she loved not eight hours ago-gone. She had run to the nearest town, stayed at the Pokemon Centre first for a day, then a week, two, a month, waiting. She found an apartment, called her mom, got her Skitty transferred and two jobs to pay the bills. That was how she wound up in Fortree, how she got to where she is now.

She told me all this two hours ago.

Now, she's trying to serve an Officer Jenny a caramel macchiato with a smile, but her eyes are red and her voice keeps cracking and _by Arceus_ I'm an asshole.

I glance at her from the corner of my eye, watch her wipe down a counter a bit more furiously than she should, glance away before she can notice my stare and thumb my metal cuffs. The Officer leaves, macchiato in hand, but not without a curious glance my way.

I sit, twiddle my thumbs, mind kept carefully blank while May bangs around behind the counter.

The silence stretches, tense and awkward.

"May," I say, loud in the cold silence of the warm cafe.

She stops. Somehow, this new silence is worse than the one before it.

"I'm-"

"Sorry?" she says, voice slightly higher-pitched than usual and sharp as a whip. "Don't be. I'm just overreacting, that's all. I'll get over it when-"

 _When you're gone_. She doesn't have to say it for me to know it's there.

"Well." She clears her throat, a choking, wet sound. "I'll get over it."

My stomach plummets, my fingers still.

"It's not forever-not that far, even. I'll come back, and besides, we still have three days. We can work this out, May, I swear," I whisper, just loud enough to be heard, voice fierce. "I swear it."

"It's-Steven, it's fine. You don't have to plan your life around a deadbeat dropout in a coffee shop. I shouldn't've gotten so attached-"

I stand, sending my chair clattering to the floor behind me. My arms are shaking.

"Steven?"

"Don't you ever- _ever_ -call yourself that again. _Never_. You're not a _deadbeat_ , May, you're so much _more_ than that." I'm spitting mad, and I have no idea why. The anger in my chest rises, vile and hot, and pushes itself out my mouth in a rush. I walk to the front counter, my cuffs thudding on the countertop louder than my hands, my grey eyes boring into her blue ones. "And I will plan my life around whoever the _hell_ I want to, May, that's not your choice to make, and Arceus alive if I want to base it around the best damn barista I've ever had the pleasure of dating, _I will_."

"Steven, you're scaring me," she says, and she looks it-wide eyes, backing slowly away, hand reaching behind her, breath coming in short huffs.

"I'm sorry," I say, and slump against the counter as the anger drains away and leaves me feeling cold. "I just- May, I'm not leaving forever. I _won't._ I'll come back, I swear, or you could come to Rustboro, or anything… it doesn't have to end this way, that's all."

I stare at my hands, cold and empty, heart racing. For a long moment, neither of us move.

And then, I hear footsteps. A hand on my head, fingers long and thin, warm to the touch. I look up and meet her blue eyes with my grey.

My chest hurts.

"Please don't let it end this way," I say, and my voice shakes.

"Three days," she replies, and my heart begins to break.


	4. The Last Three

The first night, three-fourths of the way through a bottle of champagne, when they're both laughing and as bubbly as the drink can make them, he tells her he loves her.

He doesn't mean for it to come out-Arceus alive, he doesn't-but there it hangs, too slurred to count and too late to mean anything.

May stops laughing, stares for a moment, face serious and eyes intense, searching his. Then, as suddenly as she stopped, she starts laughing again, kisses him first on the nose, then the mouth, a too-loud "I know, dummy," echoing around the room.

It's only after he pulls back that he realizes that, in their drunken kissing, she's slopped thousand-poke champagne down the front of his dress shirt.

May swears and scrambles for a towel, but he just laughs, grabs her wrists and pulls her to him, kisses her cheek when he meant to kiss her mouth but he doesn't care, he's thousands of feet in the air and nothing can weigh him down.

* * *

The second day they spend in public, holding hands and taking pictures, buying (and almost dropping) cheri and blu-razzberry slurpees high in the trees. The morning is...domestic, to put it one way. Nice, to put it another.

It's mid afternoon and May won't look at him. At the ground, yes. At her slurpee, yes. But not at _him_.

He has an inkling as to what's on her mind.

"May," he says, filling his voice with gentleness instead of the authority that almost creeps in.

She glances at him for a moment out of the corner of her eyes, but returns her gaze to the sky faster than a Beedrill's wingbeat. Steven stops and watches May, eyebrows raised, as she walks forward a couple steps before realizing her partner is no longer beside her.

"Steven, come _on_ ," she sighs as she stares...not _at_ him, exactly, but more _through_ him.

"What's wrong?"

She gapes at him, incredulous for only a moment before her stare hardens into a mask of put-upon cheer he knows from the Cafe.

"Nothing. Just a bit of a headache, 'sall. Sorry if I seem a little drifty," she laughs, and walks over to grab his hand. She smiles when she meets his concerned gaze, but it doesn't reach her eyes, and her hands are too tense in his.

"Are you sure?"

"Never been more sure about anything in my life, Steven, now _come on_."

And with that, the conversation is over, but she pulls her hand away too soon. Later, when she's not paying attention, he studies her face, her hair in the breeze, her eyes and how they've darkened from something that's not the falling dusk, her eyebrows, twisted up just a tad like she's lost and confused and asking for directions from someone who doesn't speak her language.

Steven sighs. He knows what's wrong, knows how he can (probably, hopefully) ease the pain, if only she would _talk about it_.

* * *

The third day is spent mostly in silence. Silence as Steven packs in the emptiness of his suite, silence when he's done and staring at the clock wishing it was already four and he could see May, silence when he gets the text: _I'll be there in ten. Save me some roomservice_.

Silence as he waits, tense, tapping the heel of his foot in the same _one-two-three wait a beat_ pattern.

Silence as he stares at the clock.

Silence as he almost throws it against the wall.

Silence tense and hard, choking, making his heart race and teeth clench.

Silence broken by a knock on the door, quiet yet so deafeningly _loud_ in the silence of his room he almost falls out of his chair. He straightens, smooths his shirt, and goes to open the door.

May stands a few steps back from the door, arms crossed and expression unreadable, looking at the floor.

"Hey," she says, giving him a small smile as her eyes flick to his.

"Hey."

Moments pass, and Steven feels the silence begin to settle over him again.

"Are you gonna let me in, or do I just get to stand here all night?" May asks, humor tracing her voice for the first time in what seems like _forever_. Eyebrows arched, eyes sparkling, hair tucked behind an ear... _this_ is May. It grounds him, pulls him out of that tight, stretched silence.

He leans against the doorway with a chuckle, stretching his legs across the entrance in a parody of arrogance. "Maybe if you ask nicely."

She laughs, arms falling to her sides as she steps forward.

"That was fast. Eager, are we?" She asks, and the lilt of her voice and way her eyes meet his for the first time in two days brings his heart to a stop.

"Always." It's barely a breath, and his face is likely as red as May's shirt, but it seems to be enough. He doesn't see her smile as much as _feel_ it in the press of her lips to his, warm and soft and tasting of chapstick and coffee, and _oh, Arceus_ -

What starts out sweet and chaste turns grabbing and hard, _fast_. Jacket balled in fists, hands gliding over the angled lines of shoulders, he's stumbling backwards and she's slamming the door with her foot. He loses both himself and several articles of clothing in the give of her skin, the smell of her hair, the roll of her hips, the giggles in his ear and a husky _is that nice enough for you?_ somewhere around his chest.

They're there for themselves and they're there for each other, and even though this isn't what he had planned for tonight Steven has never been so blissful.

* * *

Later, when all is said and done, he tells her he loves her.

Again, he doesn't mean for it to come out, but he'll be _damned_ if he regrets it. Unlike the last time, it lays over them like a warm blanket, warm and soft and _definitely_ counting.

His arms are wrapped around May's stomach, his face buried in the curve of her neck, and he can feel her tense for a moment before May sighs.

"I know, Steven," she sighs, voice heavy and sad. "Me, too."

* * *

Somewhere behind him, his clock reads _four-thirty-three AM_ in bright green lettering. May's breathing is deep and even, face peaceful and hair spread out behind her in a tangled, glorious brown halo. Sometime in the night, she had rolled to face him, and he was grateful-not because being curled around her was in any way unpleasant, but because when his phone went off at four o'clock telling him to get out of bed so he doesn't miss his flight at five, her face was the first thing he saw.

He takes another moment to memorize her, then slides out of bed. He immediately regrets this decision in the freezing wasteland that is the rest of his hotel room. He dresses, gathers his clothing from last night (except for one sock that somehow wound up on the ceiling light), and grabs his backpack and two suitcases in silence so as not to wake May. By the time he's ready, she's still out like a light, snoring softly, spread out over the entirety of the bed.

 _By Lugia, she's beautiful_ , he thinks, moving to kiss her forehead, or wake her, or _something_. He can't just disappear; she deserves an explanation, a goodbye, literally anything other than one-and-done sex with a rich guy. The silence envelopes him and he stops. Surely, it would better this way. She wouldn't have to deal with the regret, wouldn't have to...shit, he doesn't know, blink tears out of her eyes or something stupid and cliche and he's most certainly overthinking this and he just _can't_ , he _has to get out of there and now, before she wakes up_.

Just let her live in last night a little while longer, and when she wakes up…

Well.

All that's left of him when he closes the door is a pokeball and an envelope with a promise inside. Something she can't refuse. Or rather, something Steven _hopes_ she can't refuse.

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks to the wonderful soaringillusions (Samko FFN) for promoting my story on Tumblr! I go under the names its-cullenminating on Tumblr and Sylphie3000 most everywhere else (including FFN), so the story's up on two separate places for your reading enjoyment. Also, thanks to Lady Deviance and JazzieLouise FFN for your reviews, and to everybody who's followed, favorited, and reblogged! It really means a lot.**

 **As a side note, this update took** _ **forever**_ **for two main reasons: School, and then I got hit by the anxiety bus because my life is on it's bleeding** _ **head**_ **right now and when I have time to write, I'd apparently rather stare blankly at a wall for hours. I'm sorry for the wait, guys. Really I am.**


	5. Time Goes On

The days go by.

I wake up in the mornings, push a purring Moony off my face, and haul my ass out of bed. A quick brush through my hair, clean teeth, hastily applied makeup and clean (ish) clothes are all I need to get ready when I'm almost late for work, but I still always take a moment to stare at the bulletin board in my tiny living room. It dominates the entire wall, but it's far from empty, oh _no_. Everything from here to Ecruteak City is tacked up on it-old post-it's, artwork by myself or from my own friends, photos of my parents, of Moony, of myself.

Letters hang there too, old ones from my dad, slightly newer ones from friends back in Johto (I say slightly; none of them have written in years), report cards from school and the Trainer's Academy. Some people would have thrown these away or tucked them in a box or an album-but not me. Every single one is tacked up with all the art and color and less-than-sticky note reminders to _buy more milk at store!_ It's how I remember people, places, emotions. I never feel right if I forget to look at it before I leave the apartment; it's like I'm leaving who I _am_ behind.

Right now, in the bottom left corner, a new letter hangs. Messy scrawl on an unassuming piece of college-ruled paper, signed _love_ , like the currently unnamed author of the letter ever did to begin with. It bids me travel, for love, for life, _for me_ , says the author.

Behind the letter is a picture. One of the only ones he would let me take, and he's smiling, of _course_ he is, and I'll be damned if seeing that smile and messed-up hair of his doesn't make my heart sink like a rock.

I sigh.

Look away from the letter and the picture, finger the unopened pokeball in my purse.

I go back to work.

An Ace comes in with a flashing smile and a Houndour, the local Nurse Joy after a thirteen-hour shift and desperately needing an espresso.

The line's long and getting longer by the moment, so I meet the Ace's blinding smile and serve him his Toddy before the riots start.

 _Hi, welcome to the Fortree Cafe! We have the best coffee in Hoenn! What would you like?_

A Psychic who tries to read my thoughts, spouts some prediction about love and grandeur and dark, hooded male figures in my future. My heart twists and I hand him his tea with a curt smile.

He doesn't leave a tip.

 _Hello, welcome to the Fortree Cafe! What can I get for you today?_

A Swimmer on her way to the coast, long black hair trickling down her back like glaze, like water, eyes of blue glass and a smile that never quite reaches her eyes. Her order is as long as her hair, but I make it _perfectly_ , blending the macchiato like a machine while she watches, disinterestedly interested.

I ignore the sound her metal bangles make against the counter.

 _Hey, welcome to the Fortree Cafe. Can I get you anything today?_

The Nurse Joy comes in again, another twelve-er and still six hours to go. I give her an extra shot for free, but don't tell her. She's the type to come back in and pay me back threefold in the tip jar, and for once, tips aren't what I'm looking for.

Just a smile, just the extra little jolt of caffeine to a hard-working Nurse's brain is all I need today. As long as she makes it through her shift.

 _Welcome to the Fortree Cafe. What can I get you?_

The Hoothoot are singing by the time I head home, coffee clinging to me like a bad perfume despite the constant treetop wind. Windchimes accompany the Pokemon as I wind my way through the bridges, hands in my pockets, hair flying and cold stinging my face. The scenic route home is almost a mile, and by the time I reach my apartment my face is numb and Moony's waiting at the window, mewing and worried.

I let myself first into the building, then the apartment, feed my Skitty and collapse on the couch.

I wake up the next morning to another missed call from a number I deleted roughly two months ago and ten minutes late for work.

 _Shit._

* * *

His days are filled with bullshit.

And by bullshit, Steven means business.

It's not that he's not charismatic or good with numbers, or can't ever close a deal or run tests on new tech, see if the employees are still on their toes. It's not, in other words, that he's not _good at business_ , exactly. Quite the opposite, in fact.

He _is_ the son of Joseph Stone himself, after all. What kind of heir would he be if he couldn't run numbers in his head like a human calculator? Or conduct meetings like a maestro would an orchestra?

Business is never boring - he was literally bred for it - -but after a period of say, more than two weeks, he really starts to hate his job.

Thing is, he's a maestro working with an orchestra he hates. Business might never be _boring_ , but, to be quite frank, he really couldn't care less what Devon Corps is trying to _do_. He uses technology. Saying he doesn't care about the making and manufacture thereof would be putting it lightly.

Those business meetings that his father sends him to whenever the need arises, for however long the need has risen…

They were his bread and butter. Like paid leave, but with less rocks and more human calculator. Fortree had been a _dream_ , too. Paid leave, constant numbers _and_ May? Arceus alive, it hurt to leave (not that he would've wanted to go back to begin with).

He's tried calling her, texting her - Latias' wings, he's even tried _e-mailing_ her.

May never checks her e-mail. Steven knows this.

He's the one who had to sort through five hundred and seventy two unread messages to find the one that let everybody know Marrissa would be missing work on a specific date _three months prior to the actual date_.

Regardless of the medium, she won't answer. Two months without a word from her, and _many_ words from his father.

 _Hey, didn't you meet a pretty girl in Fortree?_

 _Where's that dame you talked about? She seemed nice._

 _When do we get to meet Ms. Fortree Cafe?_

It's stupid, and frustrating, and he has half a mind to go back and talk to her in person, but he doubts she'd answer him if he smacked her in the face with his steel cuffs.

To be fair, he _did_ walk out on her at almost five in the morning after their first...night...together, with nothing but a pokeball, a quickly scrawled note and a sock on a light fixture to tell her that he'd ever been there in the first place. If he were her, he'd be pretty peeved off too.

Steven stares at his phone, swiping notifications for his e-mail and reminders for his meetings right, to be dealt with later.

There was a message half typed, black text on a pale blue background, a picture of a smiling, blue-eyed brunette in the top left corner. Next to the picture, in simple black text, a name: _May_.

Above the text box, two months' worth of messages, all saying more or less the same thing, piled up and up. All on his side of the screen, all unanswered.

He sighs, deletes the text, closes the app. The wood of the back of his chair digs into his spine when he leans into it, and although it hurts he pushes a little farther. It breaks up the fast-forming knot in his chest, the one that threatens tears and makes it hard to breathe.

He's the son of Joseph Stone, heir to the Devon Corporation. He might not like it, and he might want to be gone as much as possible, but that doesn't make him an idiot.

He's plenty intelligent.

And he knows how to take a hint. After two months, it'd be pretty hard _not_ to get.

He'd just hoped…

Well. Even the rich don't always get what they want, now do they?

* * *

The days go by.

Steven throws himself into paperwork and tech tests. He makes small talk with his employees, and tries his best not to flinch whenever his father mentions his son's _Fortree mistress_.

Eventually, the days begin to blur together.

For once in his life, he's grateful for the mind-occupying busy work that Devon Corps provides. It keeps his mind off…things.

* * *

He deletes her e-mail contact, her phone number, hides her picture in an old album, all in one night and spends the rest of it crying like a spurned teen.

Eventually, he forgets the sound of her laugh and the rhythm she taps when she's upset. Small things, insignificant out of context but to him they were always a marvel. One more thing he always thought to remember, now lost behind a quote or two, the shine of her hair on a Teusday morning, the eccentric Johto curses she'd throw when she stubbed her toe. He mourns the loss, but doesn't look to get it back.

He hurt her. He takes responsibility for that.

But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt whenever something reminds him of her, as infrequent as that may be as the weeks go on.

Regardless, the days go by.

 **A/N: Hey, guys. So I've got some bad news, and some explaining to do. Ya' see, this story's done. It's over. I had an idea as to where to go with it, but it didn't really make any sense, and I couldn't figure out how to make it fit. I've spent nights awake thinking about it; at this point, I can't even look at it without anxiety, much less continue writing it. I'm really sorry for dragging everyone on, and I thought this chapter was an appropriate end to everything, so this is gonna be it for The Fortree Cafe.**

 **I hope you enjoyed! Again I'm really sorry it wound up like this. Maybe with it out of the way I can whip up another couple ficlets, because I really do love this ship but with TFC hanging over my head I couldn't do what I wanted without feeling guilty. Thanks for reading!**


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